


Don't Say the Words; I Can Hear You

by Melawen_C



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, Inspired by Art, M/M, PWP, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melawen_C/pseuds/Melawen_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is advancing on him, in full wolf-mode, and Stiles realizes how much trouble he’s in...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Say the Words; I Can Hear You

**Author's Note:**

> So [this fantastic Sterek art](http://alphaparties69.tumblr.com/post/58004990994) by [alphaparties69](http://alphaparties69.tumblr.com/) inspired me. I have no other explanation. (Seriously, go look at this picture. *keymash*)
> 
> ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Stiles stands in the middle of Derek’s loft and thinks this was a horrible idea. 

When Derek called him, all Stiles could understand were two words: _Stiles, help._ He’d rushed over, spurred on by the panic in Derek’s voice. 

Now Derek is advancing on him, in full wolf-mode, and Stiles realizes how much trouble he’s in... he knows he has exactly _no_ chance of winning in a fight, hell, he has very little chance of outrunning him either, but he’s at least going to try. 

He runs.

Derek’s growl echoes around the loft, drowning out Stiles’s litany of “oh god, oh god, shit” as he scrambles to keep away from him. When Derek catches him, he pins him to the wall and Stiles pushes back with all his might, bracing his arms against Derek’s chest, one last-ditch effort to keep from being shredded to itty-bitty Stiles pieces.

“It’s me, Derek. Come on man, it’s me, it’s Stiles, don’t, please stop,” he’s rambling, begging for his life.

Derek growls at him and, shit, if he isn’t terrifying like this. He’s seen Derek wolf-out before, obviously, but he’s never been afraid of him… never had those teeth and claws and inhuman strength focused on him as the target. 

Yeah, terrifying. 

He’s always mocked Derek’s threats but, right now, having his throat torn out is starting to seem like a very real possibility. Those claws, curled around his shoulders, are starting to dig into his skin and he grips Derek’s wrists, wincing.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but let me help, let me at least _try,_ come on, Derek, _please.”_

Derek’s eyes narrow, and Stiles waits for the inevitable, but then he tilts his head and looks at Stiles and there’s recognition in his eyes. He jerks away and Stiles sags against the wall in relief. Derek gives a growl of frustration and looks at Stiles, helpless. It’s a strange expression to see on his face, his _wolf_ face. He’s not turning back into human form, which must mean that he _can’t,_ which is a problem, but a friendly werewolf is better than one that wants to kill him, so Stiles’ll work with what he’s got.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady. “Are you – what’s wrong, what happened?”

Derek doesn’t speak – Stiles doesn’t think he can – but he steps closer and presses their foreheads together, whining softly, like he’s asking for help. His breathing is erratic and his body is thrumming with energy, restless; Stiles can feel it. He puts his hands on Derek’s shoulders, squeezing gently.

“Hey, man, it’ll be alright,” he says, and he actually believes it. He lets out a deep breath.

He isn’t afraid of Derek now. Maybe he should be (there are still wolf teeth within very close proximity to him) but he’s not. To prove it, he brings Derek’s hand up and places it against his heart, so he can feel it beating steadily.

“See? You feel that? You hear it? We’ll figure this out.”

Derek leans in, then, and presses his nose to Stiles's jaw, and it's so oddly affectionate that Stiles lets out a surprised laugh.

“Not such a big bad wolf now, are you?” he grins, ruffling Derek’s hair.

He growls and nips at Stiles’s throat, but he doesn’t pull away. He keeps his face buried there and inhales deeply, and Stiles has a moment of panic to wonder what Derek smells on him.

He runs his nose along Stiles’s collarbone, over to the place on his shoulder where the marks from his claws are stinging. Derek peels back the fabric and _licks_ at the wound and Stiles lets out a strangled sort of sound. He licks again, gently, and Stiles can’t tell if it’s an attempt to clean him, heal him, or just apologize. 

This has gone from being bizarre and frightening to being bizarre and very intimate, with Derek’s body pressed against his, mouth and tongue on his skin and, _oh shit,_ Stiles scolds himself, _don’t think about it like that._

It’s too late, though. Relief and adrenaline, mixed with the fact that his body does _not_ differentiate between appropriate and inappropriate times to think about Derek Hale touching him, and Stiles knows he’s in trouble. He clenches his jaw and tries – _tries_ – to calm his breathing while he thinks of what to do.

Derek doesn’t stop touching him, though, just keeps breathing him in, like his scent is something he can’t do without. Stiles doesn’t understand at _all_ but tries to hold as still as he can, tries to keep his heart rate steady and he’s doing a decent job of it, really he is… until Derek is kneeling in front of him. 

He’s on his _knees_ in front of Stiles and Stiles cannot for the life of him stop the thoughts that are running through his head at that sight. 

“Oh my _god_ , what are you, d’you even _know_ what you look like, fuck,” he swears, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. He knows he’s babbling and he probably sounds like an idiot, but Derek’s mouth is _right there_ and Stiles doesn't care that he's a werewolf; he is about to lose his fucking mind.

Hands – claws – are on his hips then, and Derek is nuzzling him, fucking nuzzling him through his jeans, and Stiles is desperately hard. _How could he not be?_ he thinks, with a near-hysterical laugh. He knows Derek can sense it, can smell it, hell, can _feel_ what affect he’s having, but Stiles can’t help it. Seems Derek can’t either, so he figures they’re in good company. 

Derek _wants_ him. The realization crashes into him, smothering him for a moment until he can get his bearings. Well, at least part of him does. If it’s the human or the wolf, Stiles isn’t entirely sure because he still doesn’t entirely (okay, at _all_ ) understand what’s happening here.

Derek growls against him, like a warning, and suddenly Stiles is being dragged off his feet. Before he has a chance to even finish the string of curse words in his head, he lands on the bed, with Derek looming over him, his glowing eyes wild, unfocused. 

There’s awareness there, Stiles can tell. Derek seems conscious of his movements, although he might not have full control. His gaze doesn’t waver as he drags his claws slowly down Stiles’s chest. They snag on the fabric of his shirt and Stiles gets what Derek is trying to say. 

_Off._

He sits up eagerly, pulling off his own and then Derek’s while he’s at it. Because he’s nothing if not helpful.

“Can I just say,” he begins, getting somewhat distracted by Derek’s chest, “that I’m surprised you bothered to ask, and didn’t just rip it right off of me? I’m actually a little impressed.”

Derek gives him a glare and snarls. Stiles grins.

“Too late now, big guy, your rough-and-tough image has been shot to hell. Although these,” he gestures to Derek’s teeth, “are still a little intimidating.”

Derek widens his eyes, as if to say, _oh, is that so?_ He brings Stiles’s hand to his mouth and nips gently at his fingertips. Stiles shudders and leans back, pulling Derek with him. Two can play that game.

He takes one of Derek’s fingers in his mouth and swirls his tongue around gently, very gently, because Derek’s still got claws and Stiles isn’t a complete fool. He closes his eyes, then, and lets his mouth work. Derek's thumb and finger grip the side of his jaw as he sucks and Stiles _wants_ , wants so much and so damn badly that he can hardly breathe. One long, sharp nail scrapes ever so lightly along his tongue. He drags his teeth along the pad of his finger in retaliation and Derek _whimpers._

Stiles opens his eyes and finds Derek looking _wrecked._ He’s panting, gazing down at Stiles like he wants to devour him, in any and every sense of the word.

He arches up, pressing their hips together, and that makes something in Derek snap. He pulls his finger from Stiles’s mouth, and tears off his own jeans _with his fucking claws._ Stiles makes a noise that is _inhuman_ and scrambles to get his own off. He barely does before Derek presses down against him, hot and hard. Stiles can’t even _think,_ just clings to Derek, frantic and desperate. It feels amazing, feels perfect. He’s going to write poems and essays on just how good it feels if he doesn’t die of pleasure first. He’s probably saying all these things aloud but he doesn’t care and Derek, thankfully, doesn’t seem to mind because Stiles is losing what little control he had.

Suddenly, Derek lets out a cry that makes Stiles falter. He may not have much - scratch that, _any_ \- experience with this, but he knows it’s not a good sound. Derek’s claws dig into the mattress and his breathing is labored. He sounds like he’s in pain and Stiles has no idea what to do.

Derek holds himself still, trembling. Stiles forces himself to do the same and it takes every ounce of his strength to stop moving his hips, searching for that friction he craves. A shiver runs through Derek’s body. Stiles can feel the tension in him, like he’s trying to gain control. _He’s shifting back,_ Stiles realizes. Derek’s breaths are ragged against his skin and Stiles can feel him changing, slowly, slowly. He strokes Derek’s hair and his back, and brushes his lips along his shoulder and he waits, waits until he feels stubble against his cheek before he whispers cautiously, “Derek?”

Derek’s fingers curl into the sheets, twisting and pulling as he ruts against Stiles, desperately.

“I can’t stop,” he confesses.

He sounds so ashamed and so apologetic, and all Stiles can do is hold onto him. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “it’s okay, don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop, Derek, _please,_ just please.”

Derek’s hand curves around his hip and he buries his face against Stiles’s neck.

 _“Stiles,”_ he groans.

It’s like every fantasy he’s ever had, condensed into one word… one desperate, pleading word.

“Oh _god,_ ” Stiles chokes out. 

He wants to touch Derek, wants to, _needs to_. He works his hand between them and he may not know Derek’s body, but he knows how to do _this._ Derek shudders, bracing himself on his forearms so he can thrust into Stiles’s grip. His breath is coming in soft, broken gasps that Stiles can feel on his chest, his body is trembling and his eyes… his eyes are fixed, hungrily, on Stiles’s mouth.

“Kiss me,” Stiles breathes, “kiss me, _do it._ "

The words are barely spoken when Derek slams their mouths together, lips and tongue and, oh _yes,_ Stiles groans, _teeth._ He’s starting to think it’s either very good or very bad that he likes Derek’s teeth as much as he does. He tangles his hands in Derek’s hair and licks greedily into his mouth.

They’re rutting against each other and, _ohh,_ it’s good just like this. Their kisses taper off until they’re simply breathing, open mouths brushing with every thrust of their bodies against one another. 

Stiles is so close. He wants to say so, wants to beg for Derek to touch him, but he can’t get the words out. Derek must see, though, must sense it, because he shifts his weight and reaches down, wrapping his hand around them both and Stiles keens.

It takes only a few tight, sure strokes before Stiles comes with a broken-off cry, his head thrown back, fingers digging into Derek’s thighs. 

And Derek… the _sounds_ he makes as he thrusts in the curve of Stiles’s hip are better than his imagination has ever been able to supply. And Stiles has a very good imagination.

“Come on, Derek,” he urges, his own body still trembling, “so good, feel so good, I want you.”

When Derek comes, gasping his name, Stiles feels like he’s conquered the whole damn world.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

After a while, when Stiles can move again, he turns and curls around Derek’s hip. Derek rubs his nose against Stiles's forehead, breathing deeply. Stiles grins.

"You like the way I smell," he teases, stupidly pleased.

"I never said that," Derek mutters stubbornly, though he doesn't stop.

"Not with words, no, but there were some pretty specific implications."

He can feel Derek smile. "Based on the things _you_ said, when you sounded like you were half out of your mind, there's an awful lot you like about me."

Stiles shivers at his tone. "Well played," he admits, tilting his head to look at Derek. He kisses him, just because he can and Derek kisses back, hungrily.

"So, we're gonna talk about this, right?" Stiles asks, breathing heavily.

"Right," Derek agrees, dragging his fingers down Stiles's back.

"But not now," Stiles adds hopefully, kneeling astride him.

Derek smirks up at him.

"Not now," he growls.


End file.
